


I'm not an addict (baby that's a lie)

by bree_black



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Consent Issues, Dystopia, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bree_black/pseuds/bree_black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2014, there isn’t much Dean Winchester isn’t willing to do to gain an advantage in the fight against the forces of Hell. And Cas? Cas is just trying to hold himself together – with whatever chemical assistance he can find. But when they discover a potential new weapon - and with Lucifer approaching the camp - they’ll need to decide whether there are any lines they still can’t cross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm not an addict (baby that's a lie)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [I'm not an addict (baby that's a lie)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6342763) by [littledoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledoctor/pseuds/littledoctor)



Castiel likes brightly-coloured objects. They remind him of heaven, except not. Though heaven was always cold and white and the light shining through stained glass or glinting off beads and metal masks in his cabin is warm, there’s a similar kind of beauty there, in the celebration of sunlight and God’s divine light. Cas spends hours lying on the floor of his cabin, basking in reflections and refractions.

“I’m making a list for the next supply run,” Chuck interrupts Cas’ peace, sticking his head through the doorway. “Is there anything you need?” Castiel sighs heavily as he sits up. He hates that no one ever stops to knock. Just because his doorway is made of beads doesn’t mean anyone can come traipsing in whenever they please.

“No.” Castiel aims his answer in the direction of the most stationary Chuck he can see. Currently there are four of them in sight, washed in a variety of pastel colours.

“Are you sure,” Chuck presses, “like, you don’t need any more condoms?”

Castiel frowns and lifts up a nearby rug, glancing underneath. “Yeah, maybe,” he agrees, “and can you pick me up a refill of these?” He crawls to a nearby cupboard and pulls out several transparent yellow pill bottles, tossing them in the direction of the relatively stationary Chuck.

Chuck misses the catch, of course, and bends to retrieve the plastic containers. His eyes darken as he reads the labels. “Listen, Cas,” he begins, “I don’t know if we can find...”

“Do your best,” Castiel interrupts. “Generic is fine, if you can’t find the good stuff, and if you can’t find that just grab what’s around. You know how I like surprises.”

Chuck plants his feet and makes his “I’m important, really” face, so Cas braces himself. “Listen,” he says, “we can’t afford to waste medical resources on _recreational_ use. You need to get off the drugs, man.”

Cas knows the puppy dog eyes won’t work on Chuck, so he appeals to authority instead. “Dean said I could have them.”

Chuck hesitates, but only for a moment. “Dean’s got a lot on his mind. He doesn’t have time to deal with your...”

“I don’t have time to deal with his what?” Dean asks, walking in – without knocking, Cas notes – and swatting at the bead curtain in irritation.

Castiel tenses, and so does Chuck. Dean had left on a mission only a couple of hours before, and returning so soon does not bode well. Chuck glances from Castiel, to his list, to Dean, and back down to his list. “Nothing,” he mutters, “you can handle him just fine.” 

Cas isn’t sorry to see Chuck and his pastel clones leave. He shakes his head vigorously to clear it and focuses his blurry vision on Dean. Dean doesn’t have any colourful shadow-clones; there has only ever been one of Dean.

“What’s Chuck harassing you about?” Dean asks. Cas is dying to ask him about the mission, but he knows Dean will talk about that only in his own time.

“Supplies,” Cas answers, “Condoms, mostly.”

Dean lifts one corner of his mouth – the closest to a smile he gets these days. ‘Yeah, couple of pregnancy scares this month.”

“Any of them mine?” Cas asks.

“You never can tell, with you.” Dean answers, and his lip twitches upwards again. Cas counts this as a victory. Castiel one, apocalypse eight million and seventeen.

In the brief moment before Dean speaks again, Cas can almost believe they’re okay, that the shiny bright dancing lights he’s filled his cabin with indicate real peace, not just some a pale imitation.

“We need a Plan D,” Dean says, and the illusion is shattered.

“What happened?” Cas asks, though he doesn’t really want to know.

“The Colt’s gone,” Dean’s voice is matter of fact, as if his words don’t mean they’ve sacrificed two years and countless lives for nothing. “I saw them melt it down with my own eyes. They wanted me to see, that’s why we found ‘em so easy.”

Cas sucks in a breath. “Okay, so Plan D, no problem,” he blurts out, because there’s nothing else he can say. “I’ll get right on that.”

There’s something heartbreaking about Dean’s almost-smile this time, and it makes Cas want to run to the nearest pill bottle. “Keep this between us, yeah?” Dean asks, and Cas is surprised to hear that it’s a question, not an order. “No sense freaking out the whole camp.”

“Yes, sir.” Cas agrees, though he has none of a soldier’s discipline anymore. He steps forward and touches Dean’s shoulder, then busies himself pulling Dean’s green jacket off of his shoulders.

“I should go say a few words. Jackson didn’t make it out of the hot zone,” Dean’s voice is serious and he pushes, surprisingly gently, at Castiel’s chest. Castiel wonders at how the loss of the Colt is so devastating to them both, but the loss of one of their comrades wasn’t even worth mentioning except as an afterthought.

“The dead can wait,” Cas murmurs, as he tosses Dean’s jacket to the ground. “We’re still alive.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, though the words don’t seem to match his expression. “We’re still alive.”

***

Dean leaves just before dinner, and Cas doesn’t see him for three days. It’s not an unusual occurrence, but Chuck still smiles at him as they pass each other on the path to the latrine, as if he feels sorry for Cas. Camp Chitaqua is a small place – there are maybe fifty or sixty survivors left living there – and gossip goes around fast when there’s nothing much else to do. Dean and Castiel are always one of the hot topics, even when nothing’s wrong.

The gossip had been one of the reasons Castiel had started up all his New Age bullshit in the first place, actually. He’d been really into it for awhile, as his powers drained away and he came to accept that God had truly left the building. It had seemed to fill the void his Father had left, for awhile – or maybe that was the drugs. In any case, when they’d first set up the camp it had nearly been torn apart by rumour, panic and fear. Chuck had suggested they find everyone a hobby, and Cas had been unofficially appointed as their spiritual and recreational leader-slash-babysitter. He had been less than thrilled at first, but the perks – orgies and prescription drugs – really helped him adjust to his new position.

But people still gossip, it’s just that now it’s equal parts “We’re all gonna die!” and “Did you hear what went on in so-and-so’s cabin last night?” More often than not, so-and-so is Castiel. And yeah, a lot of people spend a lot of time doing a lot of interesting things in Cas’ cabin, but you’d really think they’d have gotten used to the idea by now. Even Chuck couldn’t seem to stay away from all the water cooler talk, and he’d been there when they’d schemed to shut it down.

Castiel glances over his shoulder as he knocks on the door to Dean’s cabin – the only one painted red in the whole camp so it can be easily found in darkness or smoke. Yep, there were definitely at least three people watching him, prepared to analyze the way Dean greeted him and report back to the rumour mill. The gossip doesn’t bother Cas, but he knows it bugs Dean. Or it used to, though as the weeks go by Dean seems to care less and less about anything. Not that Cas can really complain without being an enormous hypocrite.

“He’s not there,” one of the watching women calls to Castiel, pausing her work at the water pump for a moment and wiping sweat off her brow. Castiel thinks she may have been at Friday’s orgy, which probably means he should remember her name. “He stayed in Risa’s cabin last night. You could probably find him there?” She raises her voice at the end like it’s a request, like she wants Cas to go see Dean at Risa’s just for shits and giggles.

“No, thanks. I just wanted to discuss next week’s ceremony with him,” Castiel calls back, super-casual. “But it can wait.” He makes a point of strolling down the dirt path back to his own cabin like he’d come out to get some fresh, incense-free air and not to see Dean at all. 

***

Dinner that night is slop again. Whoever the guy on kitchen duty this week is, he claims it’s turkey stew, but the moment Castiel walks in he can see that it’s slop. They’d eaten fairly well when they’d first moved in, but the river is running short of fish and the squirrels are smart enough to stay away at this point. Mostly they survive on whatever canned crap they can find on supply runs, thickened with copious amounts of flour and, Castiel suspects, possibly grass.

Castiel skips dinner hour whenever he can manage it, but Chuck is less and less willing to save him some food and try as he might, Castiel can’t manage to make his body survive on absinthe alone. So tonight he’s stuck in the dining hall, trying not to get slivers off the wooden benches. He’s high, of course, but he’s running short on drugs and trying to ration, so not nearly high enough. The crush of people – voices, smells, accidental touches – is too much for him in public. He can handle it in his own cabin, on his own turf as Dean would say, but even then he makes his guests wash for the orgies. Chuck is always complaining about the amount of water his cabin uses.

At least he gets to sit at the front table by virtue of his seniority, which tends to be less crowded and less violent because Dean doesn’t put up with shit. Castiel pushes through the crowd – pulling himself away from several of the most devout of his flock along the way – and collapses gratefully onto the bench of the head table farthest from the crowd. His head suddenly feels really heavy, and he lets it slump forward on his shoulders.

“Have a long day of doing shit-all, Cas?” 

Castiel groans, and lets his forehead clunk satisfyingly onto the picnic table. “A good evening to you as well, Risa,” he says into the wood. He would have been perfectly content to spend the rest of the evening in exactly that position – he’d tell his congregation he’d been meditating or something – but then something thick and hot and slimy splashes onto his face.

He sits up and gazes down into his bowl of slop, infinitely disappointed with the state of his life. “Thanks Chuck,” he mutters with absolutely zero conviction.

“The man can get his own food,” Risa snaps, and Chuck winces. “Why do you keep babying him?”

“The guy’s been through a lot,” Chuck mumbles, altogether too apologetic.

“We’ve _all_ been through a lot,” Risa insists, and even though she’s giving him a headache, Castiel really can’t disagree with her there.

“Children, children, please don’t fight.” He tries to keep his voice low and soothing, the way Dean has taught him. “Your mucus will get cold.” He watches a stream of the grey liquid slide greasily off his spoon and back into the bowl.

“You’re disgusting.” There isn’t much heat behind Risa’s insult, and her expression indicates she isn’t thrilled about tonight’s culinary adventure either.

“Takes one to know one,” Castiel retorts and okay, that isn’t his best work.

“Hey guys,” Dean says from the end of the table, voice scratchy and exhausted. Without being asked, the other diners slide over on the bench, squeezing together to give Dean more room than he needs. He plants himself down next to Chuck, across from Castiel, bowl in hand. Dean’s bowl contains twice as much slop as anyone else’s – the kitchen always gives him double rations – but Castiel knows he’ll barely touch it. Dean’s body lives off the hunt like Castiel wishes his body could survive on intoxicants.

“Dean, what’s wrong?” There’s an uncharacteristic gentleness in Risa’s voice, and it’s enough to startle Castiel into looking up. His buzz dies immediately when he does.

Dean’s eyes are sunken and red-rimmed. He obviously hasn’t shaved in days, and if the smell is anything to go by, he hasn’t changed his clothes either. There’s nothing particularly strange about this – Dean has a tendency to get caught up in his work and forget about little things like personal hygiene. It’s the look on Dean’s face that frightens Castiel. He hasn’t seen an expression like that since they got the big news out of Detroit.

“Fuck,” he says, and for some reason Dean looks grateful.

“What’s up?” Kyle asks, eyes darting between Dean and Castiel. He’s Dean’s second in command or whatever, and he feels like he always needs to be the first to know everything. Cas feels just a little bit smug when Dean ignores him.

“I’m, uh, calling a meeting for tonight at ten. My cabin. On a need-to-know basis, okay?” There’s a chorus of muted agreement and nodding of heads around the head table. Castiel almost forgets to nod himself, he’s so distracted by Dean’s expression.

“You in, Cas?” Dean asks, and Cas is the first person he’s made eye contact with tonight.

“Of course,” Castiel answers, but Dean is already rising from the bench, bowl of slop abandoned. His steps are purposeful but deliberately calm; he’s trying not to alarm the civilians. Castiel struggles to follow him, tangling his legs with Risa’s as he rushes to stand.

“Cas,” she says when he’s finally upright, “catch.” He does, barely, and finds he’s holding an expired protein bar. It basically amounts to gold in Camp Chitaqua. “See if you can get him to eat,” Risa explains. 

Castiel nods in her direction, than hurries to catch up to Dean. He has to jog and whatever he took before dinner isn’t friends with coordination, but the crowd parts around him and soon he’s walking comfortably at Dean’s side. No one tries to touch Castiel when he’s with Dean.

***

Dean’s cabin is sort of the opposite of Castiel’s. Where Castiel has tried to add some homey, atmospheric touches of colour and light to his assigned space, Dean’s cabin is always dark and slightly damp. He rarely opens his curtains and he only turns on the lamp when he needs to read. Though many of them had been able to create some semblance of home in this shithole, Dean hasn’t even made an effort. His cabin is depressingly barren, furnished only by a rusty camp cot and a picnic table borrowed from the mess hall stacked with books and papers, unlit lamp pulled up next to it.

“You know I’ve got some of the newbies weaving stuff out of old clothes and shit,” Castiel says as he follows Dean inside, “I could get you a rug or something. Maybe a quilt.”

Dean doesn’t respond, but Castiel didn’t expect him to. He closes the door behind them, then leans against it, as if he’s holding it shut against an invisible intruder. Castiel waits.

“We ran into another pocket of survivors,” Dean finally begins, “couple hundred miles east. Said they’d come from Chicago.” He takes a long, slow breath before continuing. “They were running from something, _someone_. A tall guy, they said, with dark hair and sideburns wearing, get this, a fucking _white suit_.”

Castiel catches his breath. “Listen, we don’t know for sure...”

“I showed them a photo,” Dean interrupts, “one of the old fake IDs. It was Sam.” His voice cracks on the name, like he’s out of practice saying it. He leans his head back against the door and closes his eyes, looking more tired than Castiel has ever seen him, which is saying something.

“Fuck,” Cas repeats, because it seems appropriate. “What are we going to do?”  
Dean’s mouth twitches at “we,” though it looks more like a sneer than a smile. He opens his eyes. “Well,” he says, “I was thinking I’d kill the son of a bitch” and Cas knows he means Lucifer, not Sam.

Castiel bites back all the obvious questions like “How?” and “When?” and “You and what army?” Instead he merely nods, “Sounds simple enough.”

“Piece of cake,” Dean agrees, and then he’s moving, pushing Castiel roughly against the cabin wall. Everyone is still at dinner so it’s quiet outside, almost too quiet. Undoing the snaps on Dean’s jacket makes a sound like miniature gunshots.

Dean presses Castiel’s shoulders into the rough wooden wall and Cas knows he’ll have slivers tomorrow but he doesn’t much care. He remembers Risa’s protein bar too late – it’ll be hopelessly crushed in the back pocket of his jeans now, but he doesn’t much care about that either. Everything is getting pleasantly blurry now, everything except for Dean’s hot mouth at his throat and the tips of his fingers burning into his skin, branding him where they dig into his hips.

Castiel is used to rough sex, with Dean at least. Secretly he thinks it’s funny that the rest of his sex life, with his devout followers or the very very bored in camp is so much gentler than this, is supposed to be about expression and connection and the fucking _dragonfly eye of group mind._ It’s all so fucking worthless, a meaningless distraction at best but _this_ , pressed up against a wall in the dark and the damp feels like it matters, not that Castiel would ever admit it.

Today is rougher than usual though, even for Dean. Castiel knows he’ll have bruises on his hips and chest tomorrow, and bite marks on his neck. And especially given how they left the mess hall together, people will talk. He can’t bring himself to push Dean away or tell him to lighten up though, not when he can feel Dean’s heart pounding even through multiple layers of fabric. Not when he can hear the needy, whimpering noises Dean makes in the back of his throat as they kiss, the closest Dean ever comes to sobs.

Castiel’s accustomed to pleasure-pain and he knows how to ride Dean out, but he’s still surprised by the sharp, sudden pain at his throat. He yelps in a totally undignified fashion and Dean pulls away, takes a step back.

Dean’s eyes go wide, and he reaches out to touch Castiel’s neck. When he pulls his hand back, there’s blood on his fingertips. It shouldn’t be a big deal and maybe it wouldn’t have been a few years back, but the Croatoan virus spreads through blood contact and the smallest cut or scrape sends them running for the disinfectant these days. There are even rumours it’s gone airborne in the snatches of radio they catch off the military frequencies. Being bitten is everyone’s worst nightmare.

Dean licks Castiel’s blood off his finger, and Castiel shivers. Dean looks surprised, though Castiel’s not sure if it’s by his own action, the taste or Castiel’s reaction. He closes the gap between them and leans forward, licking a long stripe up Castiel’s throat, where the blood must’ve dripped. He swallows loudly, and Castiel can feel his breath on the freshly broken skin, stinging slightly. Dean lowers his mouth again and Castiel feels the pain first, swiftly replaced by a flood of pleasure starting at his throat but spreading quickly downwards, where it settles in his cock. He shakes under Dean’s body as Dean _sucks_ at Castiel’s throat, blissful pressure. One of Dean’s hands cups Castiel’s chin, lifting it slightly to expose more of his throat, and the other rests lightly on his shoulder. Castiel thinks – ridiculously - that this is the most intimate moment they’ve had in years, as Dean drinks his blood. He doesn’t really believe any of the bullshit he preaches, but for a moment he feels a sort of union, a communion, with Dean, shivering together in the dark.

***

Before he leaves, Cas tries to give Dean Risa’s thoroughly squished protein bar. He has it in his head that it’s not a good idea for Dean’s stomach to be empty but for Castiel’s bodily fluids. Dean refuses the bar, pushing it on Castiel instead.

“You eat it and tell her I did,” he says, “You probably need it more anyway.” And now that Dean’s mentioned it, Castiel does feel a little light-headed, though light-headedness is sort of par for the course with him.

Castiel eats the protein bar, goes back to his own cabin and finds his first aid kit. It’s not easy bandaging his own neck without a mirror, but he manages it, using a generous amount of disinfectant. Then takes a shot of the homemade moonshine a couple of his followers had given him after his last faith meeting, and lets himself take a short nap, collapsing onto one of the woven rugs on the cabin floor.

When he wakes up the sun has set completely, and Castiel swears. He stumbles to his feet, groggy as hell, and to the front door. The meeting’s probably already started, and Castiel doesn’t exactly have a reputation for responsibility as it is. He considers it a victory that he doesn’t trip on any tree roots on the path to Dean’s cabin, and he makes sure to knock before walking in, to set a good example.

The room is tense, but people are still talking in low voices so the meeting hasn’t officially started yet. There are six of them in the room, clustered around the picnic table, which has been cleared of about half its books. Someone has brought an extra lamp so they can actually see each other, and most people have brought their own chairs too. Plastic crap mostly, but Kyle’s is woven wicker. Show-off. 

Dean sits at one end of the picnic table, with Risa to his left and Kyle to his right. Kyle’s obviously invited Jeff, his suck-up best friend, who sits off to the side, a few feet from the table. Also present is April, an explosives expert who served in the Iraq, and Chuck, of course, with pen and paper, ready to take the minutes. No one ever reads the minutes, but they like to give Chuck something to do and he says one day he may make a novel out of all this.

Cas pulls a plastic chair up next to Chuck, and sinks into it with some caution. Once stable, he puts his boots up on the picnic table, grinning at the assembled group. “How’s it going, guys?”

The others just gape at him, and Risa scoffs, but Cas sees approval in Dean’s eyes. Castiel’s primary function in this camp is as a distraction. People who are busy being irritated by Cas spend less time staring at and whispering about Dean. Dean may have no choice but to be a hero, but that doesn’t mean he likes the attention.

“You’re late,” Kyle observes.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Cas answers. To be honest he’s not one hundred percent clear on the reference, but experience has taught him that most humans don’t know what they’re talking about half of the time either. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the goody bag he likes to carry with him, popping two of the most brightly coloured pills.

“You’re high?” April’s voice is incredulous. She’s not usually invited to these meetings.

“That’s just how I roll, sweetheart,” he answers, then bangs twice on the table with the heel of his boot. “I officially call this meeting to order.” He turns to gaze at Dean with exaggerated attention, “Speak, oh fearless leader.”

Dean clears his throat, shuffles some papers, then drops the bomb with his usual lack of social grace. “The Colt is gone, and Lucifer’s headed in this direction from Chicago.”

The room falls dead silent, so all Cas can hear is the ringing in his own ears. He prefers the sound of his own voice. “So should we set an extra place at dinner?”   
Apparently that’s enough to break the embargo on speech, and everyone starts babbling at once.

“What happened to the Colt?” Risa asks.

“How long have we got?” Kyle demands at the same time, causing Chuck to make a noise of distress and start scribbling frantically.

“I could blow him to smithereens,” April suggests, and everyone falls silent again. They try to keep it quiet among the general population, but everyone in this room knows exactly whose body Lucifer is riding, and exactly what exploding him means.  
Dean’s jaw is set and his teeth are gritted, but he nods in April’s direction.

“That’s one idea,” he acknowledges, and Cas is reminded that someone had invited April here tonight, and that it had probably been Dean himself. “I want him dead,” Dean announces, and Castiel sees that his knuckles are white where he’s gripping the table. “but if we don’t know how to get rid of him, we can at least slow him down by destroying his vessel.”

April, who must’ve sensed that she’d said something wrong, practically sighs with relief.

“Listen,” Dean continues, “I called this meeting primarily to update you all on what’s going on, but also to start a, uh, brainstorming session. The Colt’s not in play anymore, we need a new idea.”

“Well doesn’t he know some spell or hex or something?” Jeff jerks his head in Castiel’s direction as he asks, and Cas feels all eyes turn to him. See, Cas has a bit of a reputation around camp for being strange, for seeing and knowing things he shouldn’t. Only Dean and Chuck know he’s an angel – albeit a pretty useless one – but everyone else has figured out there’s something _off_ about him. Castiel knows languages they’ve never even heard of, can read any ancient text they put in front of him, and is always the first to recognize when someone’s been infected, even if the symptoms aren’t showing yet. There was also that embarrassing few weeks when the forest animals kept gathering around him like he was Snow fucking White, though they’d stopped when they’d figured out that was the quickest way to end up in a stew.

“Oh yeah, I totally forgot about that devil-killing spell I know,” Castiel says drily, “thanks for the reminder, I’ll get right on that.”

“Hey,” Dean snaps, and even he looks surprised by his volume. “Hey,” he says, more softly now, “stop fighting and start thinking. We’ll meet again in a couple of days. Just come with possibilities and lists of required equipment.”

The group takes this as dismissal and starts to break apart, a few stopping to talk to Chuck, probably to complain about rations running low. Risa hangs back and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, an invitation if Cas has ever seen one, but Dean shrugs her off.

“I’m going hunting,” he says, voice cold, and Cas isn’t sure if he means like, for deer and squirrels or _hunting_ hunting.

***

The next day’s scheduled supply run is an unprecedented success. The crew comes back with an entire pallet’s worth of _two-ply_ toilet paper piled into one of the Jeeps, and boxes of other stuff, canned food included, in the other. The news spreads like wildfire through the camp, and Cas doesn’t envy Chuck the job of systematic distribution.

Everyone’s pretty jazzed actually, which is why Cas is surprised to find Kyle at his door shortly after their return, looking grim.

“Hi Castiel,” he says, awkward as all fuck because he sure as hell isn’t a regular at this cabin.

“Hi.” Castiel answers. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yeah,” Kyle answers, though he hesitates before braving Castiel’s bead curtain.  
Cas offers Kyle a drink, but he turns it down in favour of shifting nervously from foot to foot, looking way too interested in all of the knick knacks.

“So,” he finally says, “could you come down and take a look at Dean?”

Castiel’s blood runs cold. “What do you mean look at Dean?”

Kyle takes a step back. Castiel hadn’t even realized he’d moved forward. “It was a pretty tough fight out there today. Our intel was bad and the Croats outnumbered us four to one. Dean took on about twenty of them all on his own while we loaded the truck. That’s the only reason we brought back so much. We tried to retreat, but Dean wouldn’t let us. He said he could handle it.” Kyle’s voice is defensive, like he wants to pre-empt Castiel’s accusations.

“And?” Castiel says, “You made it out, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Kyle agrees, but there’s no joy in his voice. “But you should’ve seen him, man. He was savage. He ran out of bullets and he just started _ripping them apart_ with his bare hands.”

“You think he was bitten.”

“How could he not have been?”

Castiel trips over three tree roots on his way to Dean’s cabin, and he still gets there in less than two minutes. Kyle hands him a gun at the entrance and Castiel takes it gingerly – not because he doesn’t know how to use it, Dean taught him that – but because he know what Kyle expects him to have to do with it. He grips it firmly, though his hand is shaking, and enters without knocking.

Dean is bent over the picnic table, reading a sheet of yellowed paper. He glances up at the sound of footfalls and meets his eyes, and Castiel’s whole body nearly collapses with relief. Dean’s eyes are clear and whatever is left of Castiel’s grace knows that he is not infected.

“Hey,” Dean says, “what’s with the gun?”

Castiel looks down at his hand, then back at Dean. “Kyle thought you might’ve been bitten out there,” he admits, “He wanted me to check.” The consequences of failing the test go unstated, but he and Dean both know what they are.

“Good man,” Dean says, clearing his throat and standing. And though Castiel knows Dean’s not infected, he can see what worried Kyle. Dean moves with a certain nervous energy, a tapping of his toes and twitching of his fingers he’d never had before. Dean has learned to be perfectly calm under pressure, to conserve his energy.

“Well?” Dean asks, holding his arms out to his sides, and interrupting Castiel’s efforts to pinpoint exactly what’s different.

“Oh,” he answers, “you’re clean.”

“Good.” Dean seems uncomfortable standing in one place, like a wild animal poorly domesticated. He crosses the room to stand in front of Cas, placing his palm over the muzzle of the gun. “So if you’re not gonna need to shoot me, we can probably put this down.”

Castiel lets Dean take the gun from him and tuck it into the waistband of his own pants. “You got anywhere you need to be?” he asks.

“I think the camp can get by without me.”

Dean smirks that almost-smile, then Castiel’s back is slamming against the nearest wall. “Shit,” he says on reflex.

“Fuck,” Dean corrects, like he still needs to teach Castiel to swear properly.

“Yes,” Castiel says, and smirks, as he reaches for Dean’s belt buckle. They’re across the room from where they’d been the night before, and Castiel stares at the spot on the wall. He can imagine them standing there, Castiel shaking and thrusting against Dean’s leg, Dean’s mouth stained red with blood. The memory is enough to get him hard.

Dean follows Castiel’s gaze across the room, and they must be on the same page. “We can do it again, I mean, if you want.” Sexual insecurity isn’t part of Dean’s M.O. and Cas is startled by the indirect nature of the question. But then, there’s an uncharacteristic shakiness in Castiel’s voice as he answers, too.

“Yeah,” he says, inhaling sharply, “if you want.”

***

Dean still spends his nights with Risa, and Castiel tells himself that shouldn’t bother him. It’s not like Dean’s his boyfriend, even if Cas did have him first. 

They’d kept things as casual as they could, so painfully aware of how dependent they were on one another already that they naturally steered away from making their relationship about anything other than sex. Cas could never be Sam, and Dean couldn’t replace Castiel’s lost brothers and sisters either. They’d stuck together initially because they’d thought they could fix this, and as that possibility got dimmer and dimmer they’d held on to one another because they had no one else. Bobby had been too stubborn – had refused to leave his home – but Dean and Cas had found Chuck, and the three of them had watched out for each other ever since.

Of course by now it’s pretty clear Dean is taking care of him and Chuck, not the other way around. Even Chuck pulls his weight around camp though, in his own nerdy, paranoid way, so Cas is really the one letting down the team. Dean still brings him on missions occasionally – when he needs someone who really has his back – but lately he’s been choosing Jeff or Kyle more and more often, and Cas’ major contribution to camp is fucking anything that moves, preventing boredom and panic.

Or Risa, Dean is choosing Risa a lot more often too. Cas can’t quite pinpoint when that changed, when Dean stopped sleeping with all the girls and focused his attention on one. It shouldn’t bother Castiel – he’s still getting plenty of action, from Dean and everybody else – but it does. He’s not jealous, exactly, though he knows everyone thinks he is, he’s more confused. Because Dean had never spent so long with one woman before, and Castiel keeps trying to figure out what’s so special about Risa. He knows he’d probably like her if she was a friend, or if he bothered to get to know her. She’s calm under pressure with a head for strategy, a great ass and a mean right hook. She also speaks her mind, even if it means questioning Dean’s authority occasionally, and she can be just as sarcastic as Cas.

The thing is, Castiel doesn’t _want_ to like Risa, because it feels too good to hate her. Castiel hates the way she walks next to Dean like his equal, gun slung casually over one shoulder. He hates that Dean watches her out of the corner of his eye when he’s describing missions, like he’d call it off if she disapproved. He hates that Dean stays the night with Risa, probably curled around her on her cot. Castiel treasures his hatred, hides it deep inside his ribcage, nourishes and protects it. And maybe that does sound like jealousy, but mostly Cas just wants to know how it happened and why he missed it.

Anyway, Castiel makes a pretty big show of _not_ pining over Dean. His orgies are fucking legendary; most newcomers to the camp make their way to his cabin sometime during their first week and his regular visitors – his congregation, he privately calls them – make up close to half the camp by now. Most of the women and a non-trivial number of the men in camp spend at least a few hours each week in Castiel’s “church”. It’s not all about sex, of course – he has them make small practical crafts some days, while he delivers sermons consisting of whatever New Age bullshit the drugs inspire – but that’s definitely his favourite part. Cas considers himself the camp entertainment, and he’s not ashamed of that.

Though he’d really like to be more than entertainment to Dean.

***

It takes Castiel a few days to figure it out, and he feels like an idiot when he finally does. At first it seems like nothing – Dean’s a little on edge, maybe, but Cas chalks that up to the fresh reports that Lucifer’s still wearing Sam’s meat-suit, and coming closer. But people at Camp Chitaqua love to whisper, and rumour has it Dean goes out to the forest every night, and usually comes home with fresh meat. A few squirrels, a deer, one time a black bear he claimed he’d found already injured and merely put out of its misery. They usually schedule missions every two days, but Dean’s gone out three days running, taking a fresh set of soldiers with him each time. When the men get back they seem spooked and they give Dean a wide berth, as if they’re afraid of him.

Castiel doesn’t see Dean for a few days and that’s not a big deal, except that when they finally do meet up – on the path out to the outhouses in the morning – Dean can’t seem to look him in the eye, gaze focused just below his chin instead, on the dark bruise still prominent on Castiel’s throat. Dean’s gaze is _hungry_ and Cas freaks out just a little.

He turns so sharply he almost overbalances, and heads back the way he’d come.

“Don’t you need to piss?” Dean calls after him, and there’s something desperate in his voice.

“Changed my mind,” Cas answers, not even slowing down.

Back at his cabin, Castiel wishes he had a real door, not a fucking beaded curtain. He doesn’t know exactly what he wants it for though – to keep Dean out, to just have some privacy for once? He pushes his cot in front of the doorway. It wouldn’t be hard to step over, of course, but it feels good to make the effort at least. Then Castiel practically runs to his quickly diminishing stash.

Three shots and six shiny pills later, Castiel feels a lot better. He rummages through the pile of books which had been under his cot, pulls out one of the oldest and creepiest looking, and flips purposefully through its pages. It’s been a long time since he did any real research, but the process is soothing.

Despite the fact that he’s sitting cross-legged, Cas jumps about two feet in the air when there’s a knock on his doorframe. Castiel can see Dean through the bead curtain, frowning at the cot pulled up against the doorway.

“Hi,” Dean says, “I can stand outside, if you want.”

Castiel shakes his head. It’s not like the cot’s much protection anyway and, especially if his research is anywhere close to correct, he’s no match for Dean even in the best of circumstances. “Come in.”

Dean steps over the cot with ease, careful not to get his muddy boots on Cas’ sheets. He moves closer – but not too close – and joins Castiel on the floor, also sitting cross-legged. The pose looks strange on Dean, restrictive.

“So you’re freaked out,” Dean begins, running a hand through his hair. It’s a nervous habit Dean had dropped at some point, learning to conserve his energy for only necessary movement – running, fighting, fucking. Seeing him pick it up again is simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.

“You could say that.”

“I don’t blame you.” Dean is very deliberately looking only at his face, but Castiel can see his gaze drifting downwards occasionally, until Dean catches himself and jerks it back up. “This is a pretty freaky situation.”

Castiel had pretty much prepared a lecture, but he’s out of practice telling Dean what to do and maybe the drugs have damaged his neural pathways or something, because he can’t remember a fucking word of it.

“But isn’t this whole situation pretty freaky? I don’t just mean with us,” Dean clarifies, making a sweeping gesture with his arms, “but with everything?”

“Sure,” Castiel says, but he feels like he’s walking into a trap.

“Then why flip out about one more little messed up thing? Especially when it’s helping.”

Castiel freezes, and Dean apparently takes his silence as a cue to continue.

“I mean, you should see me hunt now, Cas. I can run faster than I ever have before, which means I can go farther into the forest for game. And you’ve seen what we’ve found on supply runs, now that I can buy the guys more time.” He leans forward and puts one hand on Castiel’s knee. “We need this, Cas...especially now.”

“Fucking hell, Dean, do you realize who you sound like?” Cas screams, pulling himself violently back and away from Dean. He expects the reference to Sam to make Dean leave, or yell, or at least flinch. Instead, he just looks sad.

“I know. And you can’t imagine how bad I feel about that,” Dean acknowledges, but Cas doesn’t think he feels bad in the way he’s supposed to. “I didn’t listen to him, or I didn’t try to understand. I thought it made him a monster when he was only trying to help, and it tore us apart.”

Cas knows he should argue, should point out that Dean has everything backwards. But the drugs are making him groggy and he can’t hold on to his anger or even his fear. Dean’s hand is back on his knee and he’s looking at Cas like he really sees him, for once, and Cas’ stomach twists not-unpleasantly every time Dean’s eyes drift down to his throat.

“It tore Sammy and me apart, Cas,” Dean insists, “Don’t let it get between us, too. Please.”

It’s too much like the first time. _Please,_ Dean had said against his skin after they’d killed that werewolf, just weeks after Sam and Dean had gone their separate ways, _Please, Cas._ Dean and Castiel had fallen into each other, saved each other from drowning in grief for lost brothers and fathers, and truth be told Castiel knows they’ve been falling ever since. Castiel knows he’ll fall all the way to Hell for Dean Winchester if he has to.

“Okay,” he says, objections crushed under the weight of Dean’s gaze. “It’s okay.” Dean leans forward to touch him, and Castiel bites his own lip hard enough to draw blood.

When Castiel wakes up he feels _amazing._. The midday sun shines in through his windows and paints rainbows on the walls when it passes through the crystals he’s hung. His body feels warm and pleasantly heavy, weighed down by the quilt draped over his body. There’s something bundled under his head to act as a pillow, and when he turns to burrow into it he can smell that it’s Dean’s jacket.

Only the smell of something delicious is enough to make Castiel sit up and push away the covers. His left arm stings when he does so, but only a little. There’s a bandage wrapped around his forearm, expertly tied. Following his nose to the delicious smell, Cas notices a single, perfect orange sitting on a nearby chair. For a moment he thinks he’s hallucinating; they haven’t had tropical fruit in _years_. Castiel crawls to the chair and picks it up, sniffing it and stroking its unblemished peel.

“Hey Cas,” Chuck says from the doorway, and Castiel hides the fruit guiltily behind his back. “You rearrange the furniture?”

“Uh, yeah. Fung shui, you know.”

Chuck nods, and doesn’t move to step over the cot blocking his path. “These are for you,” he says, tossing a brown paper bag into Cas’ lap. A thrill runs through Castiel’s veins when he opens it and finds five or six plastic pill bottles – all full – inside.

“I thought you weren’t going to enable my self-destruction anymore?”

“I’m _not_ ,” Chuck snaps back, irritated, “but I don’t make the rules around here. Dean said you could have them.” He turns and walks away, probably to hassle someone about their overenthusiastic use of T.P.

Castiel sits, brown paper bag in one hand and perfect orange in the other, not sure if they represent a thank-you, an apology, or a trade.

***

Castiel pops four of the pills – new purple ones he doesn’t recognize – before dinner that night. He’d avoid going if he could, but he’s fucking _ravenous_ , so hungry he feels weak and light-headed, and he can’t bring himself to actually eat the orange.

The head table is more full of chatter than usual – apparently even the leadership have been cheered by the new abundance of supplies. Everyone also smells significantly better than usual.

When Castiel takes his seat, Risa smiles at him and there’s no malice in it. Castiel grunts back at her, because he’s afraid if he speaks all that will come out is “Food. Now.” He rests his head on his arms and tries to look as pitiful as possible so Chuck will go get his bowl for him.

“What happened to your arm?’ Kyle asks.

“I fell,” Castiel lies easily. “On the way to the can.”

“Smooth, Cas.” Dean says, putting a bowl in front of Cas before squeezing onto the bench next to him. Castiel would’ve scowled, but the food – chicken soup actually identifiable as such, with chunks of some kind of wild game added – smells too delicious. He’s halfway through the bowl before he notices that there’s way too much, that Dean must’ve switched their bowls. He’s about to feel guilty when he notices that Dean’s bowl in nearly empty, making this the first time in months Dean has really eaten in the mess hall. 

Everyone else is watching Dean too, it seems, though he’s oblivious. He and Chuck are discussing how best to ration the canned tuna that was part of yesterday’s haul, but everyone else is silent. Dean looks _good_ , alive and healthy and vibrant. The circles under his eyes are lighter, the creases in his forehead smoothed out, and he gestures – energetically – as he speaks. Castiel can see the change in Dean affect everyone else around the table; he notices their muscles relax, their jaws unclench and their breathing slow. 

Castiel’s knows he’s responsible for all of it, and for the first time, he feels like he’s pulling his weight around here. He lets the friendly company, the soup and the new purple pills warm him to his bones, and comes strangely close to something like contentment.

That is, until he overhears Dean, leaning over to whisper to Chuck, say “I’m going to need you to find me a demon.”

***

The problem with trying to fight Dean Winchester is that it’s really _hard_ and Castiel is really high. So when he tries to shove Dean against a wall to prove his point, he ends up pinned against it instead, dizzy. And come to think of it being pressed against Dean’s cabin wall is becoming a regular fucking habit and he’s beginning to feel a bit taken for granted.  
“Let go of me!” Cas screams, and he’s maybe a bit hysterical but who could blame him? “Fucking...get off!”

“Okay,” Dean agrees, which is pretty unexpected actually, “Just be careful.” Castiel doesn’t know what Dean’s talking about until he releases Castiel’s shoulders and the world starts to tilt alarmingly. Dean catches him, and Castiel seizes the opportunity and tries to land a punch. Somehow, he ends up on the ground.

“Jesus, Cas, you know you used to be a mighty warrior, don’t you?” Dean quips from somewhere above him.

“And you used to be less totally batshit,” Cas counters, ‘You just asked Chuck to bring you a demon.”

“Yeah, well, I need one. To test stuff on. It’s scientific.”

“All we fight is Croats,” Castiel points out. “Not demons.” They had stopped running into real demons about a year ago. Now the demons let the virus do their dirty work for them in most places, focusing their attention on the few huge military-run camps and Washington, where what’s left of Congress is holed up pretending to be in charge.

“For now,” Dean says. “But aren’t you curious about what I can do, Cas? What _we_ can do?”  
“I know what we can do,” Cas snaps, rubbing his head where they’re definitely going to be a goose egg in a few hours. “Or I think I do, anyway.”

“Really?” Dean is interested now, and crouches so he’s closer to Cas’ eye level. “How do you know?”

“I read it. In a book. Like a sane person.” He winces as he touches his head, and he really does think he might be bleeding.

“What did you read?” Dean asks, and he moves to sit behind Castiel, brushing aside his hair to inspect the injury. Cas knows he’s supposed to be mad, but Dean’s fingers in his hair feel altogether too good.

“Well, Lucifer was an angel, right? And there are all these theories about how he made the demons. I mean, they call him their Creator but we’ve never exactly figured out how he did it.” Castiel loses his train of thought and trails off when Dean strokes one finger down the skin behind his ear.

“Okay. I’m following you so far,” Dean prompts.

“Right. So one of these theories is that Lucifer mixed his blood with creatures and spirits. He didn’t think God should have a monopoly on Creation. I guess you could say he was a _scientist._ ”

Dean accepts the dig without complaint. He’s rubbing Cas’ shoulders now and despite his best efforts, Cas can’t hold onto his tension.

“Some people think that’s where werewolves came from, actually, but no one knows for sure. In any case, the demons seemed to work out for him.”

“What does all this have to do with us?” Dean asks, and Castiel loves it when he says _us._

Castiel snorts. “Idiot,” he says fondly, “What Sam was drinking was just really _really_ watered down angel blood, mixed with something evil and demon-y. You’re getting the good stuff.”

Dean takes too long formulating his question, but Castiel can’t be bothered to care when his eyelids are so heavy and Dean’s hands are so warm. “Even when your mojo’s gone?”

“Probably,” Cas answers with a sigh, “I mean, I’m powered down, but my vessel’s blood is still his blood, and my Grace is intact. The batteries are run down, but, inherently, I am what I am. _Practically_ human, but not technically.”

Someone shivers, but Castiel can’t be sure if it’s him or Dean. Castiel can’t see Dean’s face and he’s glad, afraid of what he might find there if he looked.

“You’re the only angel left,” Dean observes, more to himself than to Cas. “And you’re mine.”

***

It’s Friday, so Castiel is supposed to be hosting at least one orgy today. Instead, the cot is pulled in front of his doorway again, and he and Dean are lying on his rug, making out. Castiel is actually pretty pleased with this change of pace.

“Cas, don’t you trust me?” Dean mumbles between kisses.

“Shut up.” Castiel rolls so he’s straddling Dean, wiggling until their bodies fit snugly together.

“I trust you, you know,” Dean continues, and Cas isn’t sure he believes him. He covers Dean’s mouth with one hand to keep him quiet.

Gently, not nearly hard enough to break skin, Dean bites his palm. The pressure – it’s not even pain, yet – makes Castiel’s whole body shake, and he pulls his hand away with a gasp.

“I promise it’ll feel good,” Dean croons and then _smiles_ and Cas can’t even remember the last time he saw Dean really smile.

“Fuck,” Castiel moans, which Dean correctly interprets as assent. Dean flips them back over, then reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a Swiss army knife.

“Hold on,” Cas says, and reaches into his own back pocket. He pops the last three of the purple pills, which are definitely his new favourite. “Okay.”

Dean unwraps the bandage on Cas’ arm with a sort of reverence. He sets the wrappings carefully aside, then holds the knife to Castiel’s skin. He cuts slowly, careful not to go too deep, and Castiel barely feels any pain through the haze of the pills and the whiskey they’d shared earlier. There are three parallel lines on Castiel’s arm now, the oldest merely pink, Wednesday night’s still angry and inflamed, and now today’s, ruby-red and wet. 

Dean slides off of Castiel and lies on his side, his body pressed close. He holds Castiel’s left wrist firmly with his right hand and lowers his mouth to the line of blood. Castiel hisses at the contact of Dean’s tongue, relishing the rush of pleasure which courses through his body in response. Dean groans, and the sound goes straight to Castiel’s cock. He thrusts futilely into the air, and Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s wrists, as if he’s worried he might try to escape.

With his free hand, Dean reaches over Castiel’s body and unbuttons and unzips his jeans. He grunts encouragingly, and Cas scoots up just enough to let Dean pull his pants down a few inches. Dean slides his hand past the waistband of Castiel’s boxers and then he’s simultaneously sucking at Castiel’s arm and jerking him off, and Castiel’s already addled brain short circuits.

Between the burning, pleasure-pain in his arm and the pressure-friction of Dean’s calloused hand on his cock, Cas knows he won’t be able to last long. He tries to tell Dean to slow down, to hold off for a minute, but all that comes out of his mouth is a series of increasingly desperate moans. Either Dean doesn’t understand him or he just doesn’t care and Castiel actually sees stars as he comes harder than he has in his life, shaking and writhing while Dean struggles to hold his arm still as he drinks. Castiel watches Dean’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, and there’s something magical about the matching rhythms of Dean’s gulps and the pulses of his orgasm.

Castiel’s not sure if Dean comes or not, but when he finally pulls his mouth away from Castiel’s arm his lips are bruised and his pupils are blown and _fuck_ Castiel did that to Dean. When Dean smiles down at him his teeth are tinged with red.

***

Dean takes Chuck “hunting” with him that night after dinner, so of course Castiel follows them. Chuck on a hunting trip is about as useful as a slingshot in a fight against a ghost, so he’s damn sure something else is going on, and he has a pretty good hunch about what that is.

There’s a clearing an hour’s hike outside the camp, and Castiel’s not the world’s best hiker. Honestly, Dean definitely would have caught him if Chuck hadn’t been making at least twice as much noise. Anyway, he’s pretty lucky to trail them all the way to the clearing without being spotted, and he’s relieved when he can crouch behind a bush to watch the action.

Risa’s waiting in the clearing, holding a rifle over one shoulder. She’s standing a safe distance from the demon. It’s wearing a male body, and it’s tied to a chair placed over a devil’s trap, expertly drawn in the dirt with white chalk.

The demon snarls when Dean approaches, then laughs. “Still at it, Winchester?” it asks. “Do you even have anything left to lose at this point?”

“You know what?” Dean says, voice casual. “You’re right. I _have_ kind of hit rock bottom. But the good news is, I don’t have anywhere to go but up.”

Dean holds out his hand and twists his wrist a few degrees to the right, like he’s turning a doorknob. The demon shrieks once, shrilly, and a stream of white light bursts from its open mouth. Castiel closes his eyes tightly, and when he opens them again there are red dots dancing across his eyeballs. Castiel remembers that white light, remembers creating it himself. That demon is history.

Risa whistles, then check’s the guy in the chair’s pulse. “Dead a long time ago,” she says, matter of fact.

Chuck stares at Dean, half-horrified and half-confused. “Demon blood, really Dean?” he accuses, though he must have noticed the suspicious lack of grey smoke which always accompanied Sam’s demon-removal services.

“Naw,” Dean scoffs, “something a little classier than that.”

It takes Chuck a moment to catch on, but when he does his eyes go wide. “Fuck, Cas’ arm.”  
“Okay, someone’s gonna have to catch me up,” Risa interrupts, “What did you just do, Winchester, and can you teach me how?”

“No, he can’t,” Chuck snaps, and the guy actually looks pissed. “How could you do that to Cas?”  
“Do what?” Dean retorts, “Cas is just fine.”

“I assume we’re not talking about their fucking here,” Risa interjects.

“Oh, probably, it was always part of the deal with Sam and Ruby.”

“You shut the fuck up about Sam!” Dean yells, and Cas is nervous for Chuck’s safety. Apparently Chuck feels the same way, because he ducks behind Risa.

“Chuck,” she says, clearly not as afraid of Dean as she should be, “what is Dean doing to Cas?”

“Drinking his blood for the superpowers.”

Castiel sort of expects Risa to shrug and tell Chuck to lighten up, to stand by Dean’s side like she always does. “Maybe we should stay back,” she says to Chuck, “and bury the body. You can go ahead without us.” She doesn’t look at Dean when she speaks to him.

“Risa,” Dean says, “you’re a hunter. I thought of all people you would understand.”

“Yeah, I’m a hunter. Which makes me pretty good at recognizing monsters.”

Dean looks like he might yell, or hit her, but instead her turns on his heel and stalks back toward the camp. Cas steps out from behind the bush as Dean passes, because he knows his odds of following Dean home without getting caught are slim to none anyway.

“Hey,” Dean says, without the slightest hint of surprise.

“Boo?” 

“I knew you were there,” Dean explains, “the whole time.”

“How?” Cas asks, “I was pretty sure Chuck the baby elephant was drowning me out.”

“I couldn’t hear you. I could _feel_ you there.” Dean shrugs.

“That’s new.”

“Yeah.”

“So was that little parlour trick you just pulled.” Instinctively, Castiel reaches out to hold Dean’s hand, and he’s surprised when Dean lets him.

“I think the rest of my audience was less than impressed.”

Castiel isn’t sure himself how he feels about Dean’s new skills, but he knows that losing all his friends can’t help him. “I give you a nine out of ten.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean challenges him, mock offended. “And what would have earned me a ten?”

“Sparkles, glitter, maybe some hot pink.”

“Hey dude,” Dean chuckles, “I just killed a demon with the power of my mind. I think I deserve some credit.”

“It was pretty cool,” Castiel concedes. “Are you tired?”

“Not at all. It was crazy-easy, Cas,” and Castiel can see from the spring in Dean’s step that it’s true.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, Dean steering Cas away from the more cleverly-disguised tree roots. “I’m sorry about Chuck and Risa,” Cas says.

“Don’t be.” Dean’s voice is steely again. “That was easy too.”

***

Dean and Castiel both arrive late to the meeting this time. Risa isn’t there to glare at them, and everyone else in the room seems really conscious of her empty seat. Castiel tries, but he can’t bite back his grin when Dean pulls back that very chair for him. He sits with an immense sense of satisfaction hampered only slightly by Chuck’s death glare from across the table. Cas wonders whether Chuck might try to stab either him or Dean with his minute-taking pencil.

“So,” Dean says, “I need everyone to get their ears to the ground, sends scouts out if you can, find out where Lucifer is.”

“Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit?” Jeff says, “Don’t you want to see the proposals?”

“What?” Dean says, dumbly.

“The proposals,” Chuck snaps, “for getting rid of Lucifer? You asked us all to have them ready for tonight.” He holds up his clipboard for emphasis.

“Oh, right,” Dean responds, “Well I just figure any plan is gonna involve finding him, right? I’ll look over those uh, proposals, tonight. You wanna help, Cas?”

***

Castiel wakes up in the middle of the night with Dean’s mouth wrapped around his cock. At first he thinks he’s dreaming, but even his hallucinations aren’t quite this vivid. Cas luxuriates in the warm, wet _awesome,_ for a few minutes, then moans, partially to let Dean know he’s awake and partially to say don’t-you-dare-stop. 

Dean hums, low in his throat, in response and Cas feels the vibration reverberate through his entire body. Castiel struggles to sit up slightly, leaning back on his elbows so he can see Dean by the moonlight filtering in through the cabin windows. He watches Dean bob up and down on is cock and he thinks _this boy’s gonna be the death of me_ and then reaches down to tangle one hand in Dean’s hair, encouragingly.

When he comes – embarrassingly soon, for someone who claims to be trained in tantric sex – Dean swallows him down and Castiel finds himself fascinated, again, with the motion of Dean’s Adam apple. He uses the hand still tangled in Dean’s hair to drag him up for a kiss, low and slow and wet.

“S’good?” Dean asks, against Cas’ skin.

“Mmmmfp,” he replies.

Castiel settles happily into his usual post-sex haze, so it takes a few minutes for him to become conscious of Dean’s mouth at his throat, worrying at a piece of skin with his front teeth. “Am I being nibbled?” he asks sleepily.

“Maybe,” Dean admits. His breath is hot and his voice is low, but he sounds almost happy and Castiel doesn’t really have a choice then, does he?

“Knock yourself out,” Cas says, and Dean bites down hard.

***

Dean tries to sneak away the next morning, but Cas grabs onto his leg and holds on for dear life. Dean has apparently _spent the night_ in Cas’ cabin, and that’s not something he wants to end.

“Uh, Cas, what’s the problem?”

“Don’t leave.”

“I’m just going to grab some breakfast, and then I’ve got a mission to prep for.”

“Don’t leave,” Cas repeats.

“I can’t just stay here all day,” Dean insists, making a half-hearted attempt to shake Cas off his leg. “We’re running short on penicillin and morphine and flour, remember?” Cas does not remember. Cas is not Chuck, so he doesn’t keep a mental inventory of the camp’s supplies, but he lets go of Dean’s leg anyway.

“Come see me before you leave,” he demands, and he watches Dean’s brow furrow. He and Cas have never said goodbye before a mission before, and they’ve never had a problem going without seeing each other for as long as a week at a time.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says.

The moment Dean’s gone, Castiel scrambles to stand up, pulling up his pants as he does so. He doesn’t bother to change his clothes or straighten up his hair. He knows he looks like shit – especially now that there’s a bandage on his neck to match the one on his arm – but he goes outside anyway, squinting into the bright sunlight.

Castiel doesn’t bother to ask Chuck’s permission to access the supply shed; there’s no way that request would be approved. He’s a bit worried about the guard posted at the door, but when the guy recognizes him, he steps back anxiously.

“Hey Cas,” he says, and yeah, he’s definitely attended an orgy or two but that doesn’t explain why he looks so intimidated. 

“Hey,” Castiel can’t remember the guys name, “man. I need some supplies.”

The guy looks over both shoulders, then lowers the gun. “Okay,” he says, “just be quick about it.” Castiel wonders if it’s the way he looks or if word has gotten around camp about what he and Dean are doing. Whatever it is, this guy is scared of Castiel and it makes him nostalgic for the good old days.

“Keep watch,” he barks, and he feels almost like a warrior again.

Inside the shed he grabs a military canteen, syringe and medical tubing, and a fresh bottle of antiseptic. He pauses at the shelf of drugs – pretty, pretty drugs – but grabs only a bottle of Aspirin.

“Thanks,” he calls behind him as he leaves the shed, tucking the equipment under his jacket.

Back in his cabin, Castiel pushes the cot back in front of his door. He doesn’t expect visitors this early in the morning – and people have been coming by a lot less often lately anyway – but it makes him feel more secure. 

Cas tears a long strip off of one of his old shirts and fashions it into a tourniquet, tying it tightly around his upper arm. Castiel hadn’t spent a lot of time on injected narcotics; pills were just so much more sanitary and portable, but he has no trouble at all finding a vein and inserting the syringe. Tricky part over, he pops a few pills and sits back, watching his own blood flow through the tubing and _drip drip drip_ into the canteen, opening his hand and flexing his muscles periodically to increase the blood flow.

Castiel removes the needle when the canteen’s half full, which turns out to have been a good idea because he feels a bit dizzy when he tries to move. It’s not a lot of blood – he’s lost more than that in fights before – but there’s probably a reason people are supposed to wait a few weeks between blood donations. Castiel carefully disinfects the area, and slaps on a band-aid from his first aid kit. Then he eats Dean’s orange before trying to stand up, and finds that he feels much better.

Castiel uses his mortar and pestle to crush a few Aspirin into a fine powder, then pours it carefully into the canteen, swirling the liquid around so the powder will dissolve. He puts the cap on the canteen, moves the cot back in place and hides all his equipment underneath it, then collapses onto it, exhausted.

“Cas, hey, Cas.” Dean pushes gently at Castiel’s shoulder to wake him. “I didn’t know you actually ever slept in your bed.”

“I don’t,” Cas says, “Despite evidence to the contrary.” He swallows hard because his mouth feels dry. “Are you leaving?”

“Yeah, but I should be back sometime tonight.” Dean’s deliberately keeping his voice casual, the way he does when the civilians get skittish, and Cas can’t believe Dean thinks that will work on him.

“Take that,” Cas says, using his chin to point at the canteen resting on the floor.

“I’ve got one, thanks.”

“Look inside.” 

Dean does, and his face changes in a way that’s unfamiliar to Castiel. “Cas...”

“I put some Aspirin in there, to keep it from clotting too fast, though you might need to add water or something,” Cas explains, picking at his quilt so he doesn’t need to look at Dean.

“Cas,” Dean says again, and he pulls Cas’ chin up to meet his eyes, “Thank you.” Then he kisses Castiel firmly on the mouth and is gone.

***

Castiel doesn’t hear the telltale gravel-crunching on the main road until nearly twenty-four hours have passed, and he might have collapsed with relief if he hadn’t been so busy running. He’s not the only person making a dash for the gate; the team had been gone nearly three times as long as they were supposed to have been, and people gone longer than they’re supposed to be generally don’t come back at all.

At first Castiel can’t tell how many have returned, the bodies look so tangled into one. But as he gets closer he separates them, can see three figures, a man and a woman supporting another man who stands between them. Dean, Castiel realizes as he arrives at the gate, Dean must be injured.

But Dean doesn’t seem to agree with Cas’ assessment, or the support of the soldiers holding him up. When he notices Castiel arrive, panting, he tears away from their arms and starts off down the path to Cas’ cabin, limping slightly. “Come on,” he growls.

Cas starts after him, but stops short when someone calls his name. “Cas,” the man shouts, and Castiel recognizes now that it’s Jeff. “Cas, wait.”

Cas doesn’t want to stop, but something about the horror in Jeff’s voice, so out of place after a safe return home, stops him short. “What?” 

Jeff’s lip is bleeding and he has one hell of a black eye. The third member of the team – a woman Cas doesn’t know – is in just as rough shape. “We shot him,” Jeff says, “We had to shoot him.”

“Who?” Castiel asks, and he wants to add _And why should I care?_

“Dean. We shot Dean. Twice in each leg.”

Castiel squints at Jeff. “That’s impossible.” He turns to watch Dean turn the corner, walking briskly. “Are you fucking with me?”

Jeff shakes his head, and he looks just as astonished as Castiel feels. “He was going to get himself killed and he just wouldn’t _stop_ so we had to shoot him to drag him home.”

“Four times,” Castiel repeats, for clarity’s sake. “And now he’s walking like he’s got a slight sprain.” It’s probably not a Croat that gave Jeff the black eye, then.

Jeff nods, and Castiel takes off after Dean.

“So,” he says as he enters the cabin, stepping over the cot that Dean has apparently pushed in front of the door. “I hear you’re indestructible now or something.”

Dean is lying on Castiel’s rug, staring up at the rainbows dancing on the ceiling. “Remember how you said demon blood is just really diluted angel blood?” He asks, which is a pretty impressive non-sequiter.

“Yeah,” Castiel says, joining Dean on the rug, “I remember.”

“So like, I’m probably better at stuff than Sam was, right?”

“Don’t you think you’re a little old for sibling rivalry?” Cas counters, because he has a bad feeling about actually answering the question.

“Like, he just pulled demons out of people’s bodies most of the time, and I’m actually killing them instantly. And he couldn’t heal like this; I know, I patched him up plenty of times while he was on Ruby’s blood. You said it yourself, Cas, I’m getting the good stuff.”

Castiel can feel the momentum in Dean’s words. He isn’t sure yet where that momentum will lead, but the thought makes his blood run cold.

“I saw him, Cas,” Dean practically whispers.

Castiel knows there are only two possible names on Dean’s tongue, and he can feel their destinies balanced on the knife blade of Dean’s choice. “Who?” he asks.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice doesn’t falter on the name anymore. “I saw Sam.”

***  
Castiel has to swallow half a dozen of the blue pills and two shots of absinthe before he can have this conversation.

“You saw _Lucifer,_ Dean, not Sam,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a small child.

“For now.”

“No, forever. It’s in him, Dean, and it’s not getting out.”

“How do you know that?” Dean yells, and Castiel is frighteningly aware of how stretched thin Dean is, like an elastic pulled taut and ready to snap. “How can you know if you’ve never tried? We have no idea what I can do!”

“Anything Sam can do you can do better?” Castiel asks, “Really?”

“Why not?” Dean demands, and his expression is fierce, glowing. “I’m just as much a _holy vessel_ as he is, and I’ve got you instead of some demon whore.”

Right now Castiel feels – guiltily – like he has a lot in common with that demon whore, actually. ‘So you’re going to single-handedly kill the devil?” It sounds even more ridiculous out loud than in did in Cas’ head.

“And save my brother while I’m at it,” Dean confirms, “Who needs Michael? Never trust an angel to do a human’s job. Lucifer’s the same brand of cockroach I’ve been squashing my whole life, only bigger.”

Castiel recognizes the expression on Dean’s face like he’d recognize a long lost friend, if he had any. It’s _hope_ and it’s lighting Dean up from the inside. This Dean is wondrously, beautifully familiar, he’s everything Cas has longed for these past years, and yet Castiel thinks he hates him now.

“You pull him out and Sam will be dead anyway,” Cas asserts, though he knows this Dean and he knows it won’t work.

“Jimmy was fine, and I shot you a bunch of times.”

“The camp needs you.”

“Risa and Kyle can take care of things. And it’s only a matter of time before he comes to us anyway.”

“I won’t help you kill yourself,” Cas says, but he knows it’s a lie, and Dean does to.

“Please,” Dean says. Beautiful, familiar, _alive_ Dean with something to fight for again. Castiel reaches into Dean’s back pocket for the knife. He’d always known he’d end up giving everything for Dean Winchester, after all.

***

Dean doesn’t bother conserving energy now. He’s all action and motion, rushing around the camp giving orders like he’s never been comfortable doing before. He doesn’t wait until dinner to call the meeting, and for once they gather in Dean’s cabin during the day. The place is even bleaker in the sunlight. 

Risa’s here, this time, though she doesn’t sit down and hovers around the doorway, as if ready to bolt if Dean makes any sudden movements. Jeff and Kyle are present too, and Chuck, though he hasn’t had time to get his pencil or notebook.

“I’m leaving first thing in the morning,” Dean announces, and no one seems very surprised. “Jeff and Risa can take charge while I’m gone.” Dean doesn’t look at them as he makes the appointment. “Chuck, I’ll need one of the Jeeps.”

“What can we do?” Jeff asks.

“Nothing. Just go on as usual. If everything goes according to plan I’ll be back in a week and we can start repopulating the planet or whatever.” Dean doesn’t mention the bringing Sam back part of the plan, probably because they might shoot him in the legs again if he did.

“You’re not taking anyone with you?” Risa asks. She looks worried, and Castiel, for maybe the first time, feels bad for her.

“I’m going with him,” Castiel says, though he knows that’s unlikely to give her much comfort.

“No,” Dean breaks in, voice firm but somehow also gentle, “you’re not.”

“Bullshit,” Cas snaps, “I always come.” 

“Not this time. The camp needs you.”

“ _You_ need me, asshole.”

“I’ll need you here, when I get back. I’m not arguing with you on this one, Cas.”

“You can’t stop me.” Cas stomps his boots up onto the table to emphasize his point.

“I don’t want you there.” Dean’s voice is icy cold. “You’ll only get in our way.” Castiel is too stunned to think of a retort, too thrown by the “our,” by the knowledge that Dean is again, already, turning away from him for Sam.

“Can I come with you, then?” Chuck’s voice is soft, but defiant, and the whole table turns to look at him.

Dean smiles, looks almost touched for a moment. “Naw,” he says, “You two will just need to take care of each other for awhile.”

***

“Shit,” Castiel groans, “ _Ow._ ” Dean’d slammed him into the wall again, only this time face-first so he’d totally smashed his nose. “Jesus, Dean.”

“Sorry, baby,” Dean says, sarcastic. “I didn’t realize you were so fragile.” He busies himself undoing the buttons on Cas’ shirt, reaching around and pushing his body against Castiel’s, and Cas against the wall. He kisses the back of Castiel’s neck.

“You don’t need to make a big production out of fucking me for it,” Cas snaps, “I’ll just give you what you want and you can get going.” He pushes himself off the wall and slides out of Dean’s grasp, unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way as he moves.

Dean lets him go. 

“Here.” Cas lets his shirt drop to the floor, pulls his own knife out of his back pocket. He holds it to his own throat. “Let’s skip straight to the good part, yeah? You don’t need to butter me up.”

Dean moves closer, and reaches out to grip the knife handle. They stand together, breathing the same air. Castiel can feel the cold of the blade against his skin, though it isn’t biting yet. Then Dean kisses him, firmly, and Cas lets his grip go slack.

Dean pushes Castiel until the back of his knees meet the bed-frame, then manoeuvres them both down onto the thin mattress. He pulls the blade safely away from Castiel’s throat as they fall.

Castiel has to admit, he definitely prefers being horizontal, back pressed into a mattress, to being vertical, back pressed against a wall. He’s so busy revelling in the new softness he doesn’t put up much of a fight when Dean forces his wrists together and above his head, pinning them against the bed with one hand. Castiel knows he couldn’t escape from Dean now, recognizes the irony in how and why Dean is so much stronger than him.

Dean duck his head to lick his throat, and Castiel braces himself for the pain, squeezing his eyes shut tight. But instead of a bite, all Cas feels is the softness of Dean’s mouth, the fluttering of Dean’s quick breaths against his skin. Castiel makes a small sound, half moan and half sigh, as his tensed muscles, still expecting a fight, all seem to relax simultaneously. 

Dean’s mouth moves away, leaving a cold patch of wet skin in its wake, and Cas hesitantly opens his eyes to see where it’s gone.

With the hand not pinning Castiel’s wrist, Dean snaps the knife closed and drops it. It lands on the rug next to the bed with a muffled thump. Then Dean releases Castiel’s wrists, leaning over to reach into the bedside drawer, where he knows Cas keeps the lube. He grinds his hips shamelessly into Castiel’s as he straightens up again, and grins wickedly when Castiel gasps. The moonlight on Dean’s teeth makes Cas shiver.

Dean helps Castiel out of the rest of his clothes, then efficiently shucks his own. It’s getting chilly outside but they don’t waste electricity on heating until they absolutely have to, and the cold rises thousands of tiny goosebumps across Dean’s skin. Castiel has no goosebumps of his own because Dean’s body and their friction keep him warm.

When they’re finished, Dean doesn’t leave. Instead, he pulls Castiel’s quilt over their bodies and up to their chins. They face one another, limbs entwined, but Castiel can’t bring himself to look Dean in the eye. He’s more afraid of what he might find in Dean’s face than he thinks he’s ever been of anything in his life. Instead, he traces the pink handprint still faintly visible on Dean’s shoulder with one finger, over and over again.

“You can ask me now,” he assures Dean, gently. “You know I’ll say yes.” Dean has given Cas what he needed, after all, it only seems fair to return the favour.

“I know," Dean answers, lips barely moving, “And that’s what scares me.”

They lie in silence for seconds, minutes, maybe even hours.

“Are you going to sleep?” Cas finally asks.

“I haven’t slept in three days,” Dean admits, “and I feel better than I have in years.” He says it guiltily, as if feeling good is something to be ashamed of.

“Angels don’t sleep,” Cas mutters, newly conscious of his own aching limbs and drooping eyelids.

“See, that’s the thing,” Dean’s urgency startles Cas out of his sleepiness. He really doesn’t seem tired for once; Cas can feel his limbs twitching restlessly. Dean should be digging up a grave, or fighting a monster, or driving his car right now. “Sammy and I...we kept each other human.”

Castiel hears fear in Dean’s voice, and it’s contagious. He suddenly feels very awake, knows it’s vitally important he make sense right now. “Well if you start wearing starched suits, or teaching morality lessons in the most complicated ways possible, or calling people mud-monkeys, I’ll be sure to cut you off.”

“I’m not worried,” Dean interrupts, “about the angel blood making me less human. I’m worried that being willing to drink it means I’m already too far gone.” The desperation is his voice is thick, and Castiel thinks he might choke on it. “The whole idea was that Sam and I would stand up for _people_ while you guys played your stupid chess game. But I’m the chess master now, aren’t I? The things I’m willing to do, the people I’ve hurt. He strokes the bruising on Castiel’s neck with the calloused pads of his fingers as he speaks. “ Maybe what Risa said was true. I haven’t felt human in a long, long time Cas.”

Castiel makes up his mind then, and wordlessly leans over the edge of the bed to retrieve his switchblade. “Well,” he says as he cuts a fresh line, deep, and just below his wrist. “If it’s Sam you need to feel human again, you’ll have to go get him.”

Dean’s eyes are hungry as he watches the blood well up around the incision. Castiel’s not certain Dean is even listening to him anymore, As he leans over to press his wrist to Dean’s waiting mouth, two perfect drops of dark red blood drip onto Dean’s bare chest. As Dean sucks – desperately – at his wrist, Castiel bends to lick the droplets up. They taste like metal and tears.

Castiel shifts onto his side so he can watch Dean drink. It hurts like a bitch – especially since Cas hasn’t popped a pill in hours – but it’s the kind of pain that reminds Castiel he’s still alive, and practically human. Maybe ever more human than the man next to him.

Cas’ eyelids droop and he starts to feel dizzy. He knows he should stop Dean before he passes out, but he can’t bring himself to say anything, can’t be the one to bring an end to what might be Dean’s last moment of ecstasy. Besides, he’s not sure Dean would hear him, anyway. The room feels very, very cold. Castiel’s legs fall asleep and his fingertips go numb, and still Dean drinks, even as his angel finally falls asleep.

***

Chuck sits next to Castiel’s cot, expression a combination of genuine concern and thinly veiled smugness. Periodically, he tries to make Castiel take a sip of juice, but he can’t seem to hold anything down. Castiel feels worse than he’s ever felt in his entire life, but he’s not sure if it’s the blood loss or Dean’s absence.

“You could be dead, you know. He could’ve killed you,” Chuck says. “This was a terrible, terrible plan.”

“I know,” Castiel groans.

“Like, when I write my novel this is going to go down as either the stupidest move ever made in the entire series, or the most romantic.”

“Maybe both,” Cas suggests.

“Maybe,” Chuck agrees.

Castiel doesn’t like how Chuck is staring at him like he’s a total idiot, so he closes his eyes. He hopes he’ll be able to float away on some kind of blissful drugged-up sleep, but instead all he can see is Dean, bending over his bed ago, plastic milk jug filled with sloshing red liquid in one hand.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, and Castiel just snorts. Dean looks like he’s somehow gained weight in a matter of hours. His cheekbones are less sharp and his eyes aren’t sunken. He looks strong and healthy and ready to kill some fucking monsters, once he has his partner back. And maybe his car.

Castiel’s not an idiot. He knows that this is pretty much a suicide mission. He also knows that if Dean somehow got Sam back, they’d really have no reason to come back to this shithole. There would be monsters to kill, rogue demons to catch, and five years of lost time to make up for. Dean’s been miserable in Camp Chitaqua, and chances are, if he had the chance, he’d jump at the opportunity to put it all behind him, to pretend it never happened. Realistically, Cas knows that whether Dean pulls it off or not, he’s not coming back.

But Castiel is sick and tired of realism. He knows there’s no God anymore and he doesn’t have a lot of faith in any other mystic forces aligning to help them. But he _wants_ to believe in something, and he thinks that something might be Dean.

“I’ll see you both soon,” he mumbles, as Dean kisses his forehead.


End file.
